The Fire Dragon Read Online Free

ago, and they'd best have done it properly.”
    Degwa turned and rushed back into the women's hall. Bellyra and Elyssa exchanged a weary smile, then followed her inside.
    On a wet chilly morning Prince Maryn and his councillors assembled in the main ward. With them stood young Prince Riddmar, Maryn's half brother, who would receive the Cerrmor rhan when Maryn became king. He was a lean child, Riddmar, blonde and grey-eyed like his brother, with the same sunny smile. At Nevyn's urging, Maryn had taken the boy on as an apprentice in the craft of ruling. Riddmar accompanied the prince everywhere these days, listening and watching as Maryn prepared to claim the high kingship of all Deverry.
    This particular morning Maryn was sending off a message to the rebel lord, Braemys. For one last time the prince was offering him a pardon if he would only swear fealty—a small price, in the eyes of the prince and his councillors both. Gavlyn, the leader of the prince's heralds, knelt at Maryn's feet; he would be taking this message himself, rather than entrusting it to one of his men.
    “His guards are waiting by the gates, my liege,” Nevyn said. “I've taken the liberty of providing our herald with an escort. The roads aren't safe.”
    “I thought Braemys had taken all the bandits into his army,” Maryn said.
    “He offered. Who knows how many took him up on it?”
    “A good point. They may be as suspicious of him as he is of me.”
    “True spoken.” Nevyn held up the long silver tube containing the prince's message and waved it vaguely at the sky. “I'd pray to the gods and ask them to make him take your pardon, but it would be a waste of breath.”
    A fortnight later Nevyn's remark proved true when the herald returned. After the noon meal Nevyn was sitting at the table of honor with the two princes when Gavlyn strode into the great hall, still carrying his beribboned staff. Maryn rose and beckoned him over.
    “I'm too impatient to send a page to summon him,” Maryn remarked, grinning. “Once I'm king I'll have to mind my formalities, I suppose.”
    Nevyn nodded his agreement but said nothing. He was watching Gavlyn make his way through the crowded tables. Gavlyn walked fast, snapping at any servants in his path; he was scowling, Nevyn realized, more furious than he'd ever seen the man. As he passed, the men at each table fell silent so that it seemed he worked some dweomer spell to turn them all mute as he passed. By the time he reached the table of honor, the entire great hall, riders, servants, even the dogs, sat waiting in a deathly stillness to hear his news. When he started to kneel, Maryn waved him up.
    “Stand, if you'd not mind it,” the prince said. “Your voice will carry better.”
    “Very well, my liege.” Gavlyn turned toward the waiting crowd and cleared his throat.
    Maryn picked up his tankard of ale and took a casual sip. Gavlyn raised his staff.
    “Lord Braemys, regent to Lwvan, Gwerbret Cantrae in his minority, sends his greetings and this message,” Gavlyn paused, as if steadying himself. “He says: my ward, Lwvan of the Boar clan, is the closest living kin of King Olaen, once rightful high king of all Deverry, now dead, murdered by the usurper or mayhap his men. Therefore, Lwvan, Gwerbret Cantrae, is the true heir to Dun Deverry. Lord Braemys requests that Maryn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, keep the holding in good order till Lwvan rides to claim it at Beltane.”
    Maryn's hand tightened so hard on the tankard that his knuckles went white. “Is there any more?” Maryn's voice held steady.
    “None, my liege. I thought it quite enough.”
    Gavlyn lowered the staff and pounded it once upon the floor. His audience burst out talking, and rage flooded the great hall. The riders were cursing and swearing, the servants gabbled together, the message went round and round, repeated in disbelief. With a final bow, Gavlyn left the prince's presence. Maryn rose, glanced at Nevyn, then strode off, heading for the